Sylvia's Journal

Lift, in aviation, happens when the pressure below the wing is higher than the pressure above it. This evening we got some pressure from below.

Every single time we have gone to an evening organized by the French Cultural Center we have received an injection of hope. This evening we got another shot in the arm. We attended the final concert of the Afghan National Institute of Music and were touched deep in our core. Those evenings show an Afghanistan that few people outside this country know – one of beauty, hope, and peaceful coexistence, showcasing the talents of a new generation that grew up knowing little about their country’s heritage and century old talents.

After half an hour of speeches by various notables we were treated to a series of delightful musical pieces including a traditional song played by kids who used to be street kids. There they were in glittering traditional outfits playing their Afghan instruments in front of a packed audience – no seat was left empty in the large auditorium. I was already moved to tears and it was only the beginning. One of the three violin sections was populated by girls only; one had, only 6 months ago, been selling packets of gum on the street.

We listened to a rock band, a piece of chamber music that had a cello play alongside the tabla (drums), traditional string instruments accompanying the mournful voice of a female singer from famous musical stock. A peppy Eric Satie piece was interpreted masterfully and with great joy by talented young percussionists under the guidance of their enthusiastic Mexican teacher.

The grand finale was Vivaldi’s music rewritten as The Four Seasons of Afghanistan with an orchestra that included both western and Afghan/Indian instruments and music switching back and forth from European to Afghan meters. The music described the Afghan spring, summer (dust, heat and thunder claps), fall and winter (snow flakes and warm fires). It ended with an ode to fallen heroes and a call for peace.

A ten year old Hazara boy with the roundest face I ever saw, presumably one of the street kids, played solo on his Afghan violin that looked like a metal box with a wooden stem poking out of the top and a couple of strings. He picked up Vivaldi’s melody from the first violinist, then gave it back and picked it up again. He stole everyone’s hearts and received a thunderous applause and handshakes from several officials. His round face became ever rounder as he took in this homage, beaming from ear to ear.

The concert lifted my spirits that had been rather low lately though the lift was soon undone when we came home and learned of the disappearance of a young talented and smart woman we had gotten to know from the school. Everyone there fears it is a kidnapping, probably by greedy relatives, who were already bought off with an unconscionable amount of money. The girl left a goodbye note that sounded ominous and final. We are back in the shadow side of Afghanistan, universes apart from the Afghanistan in which we were just an hour ago. And all this happened on International Human Rights Day, celebrated with much fanfare with pictures of notables speechifying about the theory of it all.